The Crimson Curtain Peony Tree was no ordinary threat—it was a Scavenger Rank Krepsuna. In Krepsuna hierarchy, "Scavenger" was equivalent to Divine Rank for them, a pinnacle of power that placed it leagues above the countless Sunderer Rank plants they'd barely managed to survive. The more he thought about it, the more impossible their situation seemed.
The tree was not just the largest entity on the island. It was the island's beating heart. Every single Crimson Curtain Peony was a mere extension of it, their vines and roots acting as tendrils of the colossal entity's will. The dense fog of spores that blanketed the entire island originated from this central being. Every vine, every bud, every single spore was connected to the tree's vast, incomprehensible consciousness.
What made it so terrifying wasn't just its physical strength or mystical immunity but its ability to adapt and strategize like a seasoned predator. The tree didn't simply react; it calculated, commanding its countless offspring with precision, cornering its prey with scary intelligence.
Worse still, its regeneration was nothing short of absurd. Phaenora had once mentioned that even if one were to sever a limb-sized vine, it could regrow in mere seconds. Fire? Ice? Plasma? All of it was futile. The only method of harm was through raw physical force, but striking at the main tree required one to get past thousands, if not millions, of its smaller manifestations.
And if one dared to confront it directly? The roots alone could entangle and crush even Spheraphase's strongest Ascenders in a matter of moments.
Vastarael clenched his fists. Killing it wasn't an option. The three of them were barely holding on against the Sunderer Rank peonies. How could they ever hope to face something that far surpassed them?
The spore fog was the final trap. It all led inward, a funnel of death drawing them toward the island's center. And yet, that was their only path forward.
"We can't escape it," he muttered, breaking the silence. His golden eyes scanned the thick mist around them as if searching for an alternative. "The spores will push us toward the center no matter what. Running away will only buy us time before it consumes us."
Phaenora, walking ahead, glanced back at him.
"Then we don't run away," she said firmly. Her tone was calm, almost too calm for someone speaking about an absurdly dangerous plan.
Vastarael arched an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
"We go toward it."
He blinked, half-convinced he hadn't heard her correctly, "Are you insane?"
Phaenora stopped, turning to face him with her arms crossed. Her sharp features carried a faint smirk, the teasing glint in her eyes never entirely gone.
"Listen. If the fog is leading us toward the tree, then that's where the densest concentration of spores will be, right?"
"Exactly why we shouldn't—"
"Wrong. It's exactly why we should. The closer we get to the source, the clearer our options will become. Besides, it's better to face it head-on than to be hunted down like weaklings. If we can use its own distractions against it, we might stand a chance of slipping past its defenses."
She gestured to the mist swirling around them.
"This fog makes it impossible to see clearly or coordinate, and it's probably how it's keeping us trapped. But if we can get close enough to disrupt its rhythm, we'll find an opening."
Vastarael wanted to argue but her logic was sound. In truth, there wasn't a better option. The only way off this forsaken island was to pass through the heart of its terror.
"We'll use hit-and-run tactics," Phaenora continued. "Distract it, draw its attention, and then move before it can retaliate. We don't fight to win. We fight to survive, remember?"
As they began walking again, following the direction of the spore fog, the tension in the air was palpable. Even the girl, normally silent and withdrawn, seemed to sense the gravity of the situation. She kept close to Phaenora, her small frame almost lost in the shadow of the older female.
After a while, Phaenora broke the silence.
"Hey," she said, her voice softer now as she glanced at the girl. "Do you remember your name?"
The girl hesitated, her wide eyes flickering with a mixture of confusion and sadness. She shook her head slowly.
"No? Not even a little bit?"
Another shake of the head.
Phaenora sighed, a faint smile playing on her lips.
"Well, we can't keep calling you 'the girl' forever, can we? What do you think Veneri? Should we give her a name?"
Vastarael looked over, his expression thoughtful. The girl's silence tugged at something deep within him—pity, perhaps, or a desire to give her some semblance of identity in the chaos they were trapped in.
"You don't remember your real name?"
He asked softly, crouching slightly to meet her gaze.
She hesitated before shaking her head again.
"Then... what about something temporary?" Phaenora suggested. "At least until you remember."
The girl finally spoke, her voice small but clear.
"...Is that okay?"
Vastarael and Phaenora exchanged a glance.
"Of course it is," Phaenora said warmly. "We'll think of something fitting."
As the three of them pressed on through the fog, the conversation shifted to potential names, a fleeting moment of light in the otherwise oppressive redness surrounding them.
The girl turned her head slightly at the conversation but didn't say anything. She had barely spoken much since they'd met, though her bright, intelligent eyes missed nothing.
Phaenora hummed in thought, "How about Flick? Or Glimmer? Something light, like her spirit."
"Glimmer feels... too fleeting. She's more solid than that. Persistent." He paused, his lips curling into a faint smirk. "Shimmer."
The girl's steps faltered for a moment. She turned to face them, her expression unreadable, but her eyes sparkled with something neither of them could quite place.
"Shimmer?" She asked quietly, testing the name on her tongue.
Vastarael smiled, his usual charm softened by sincerity.
"Yeah. It suits you. Quiet, steady, but still... bright. You don't let things drag you down, even in the middle of all this madness."
Phaenora grinned. "Shimmer, huh? I like it. Sounds fitting for someone who survived this island without breaking a sweat."
The girl—Shimmer—let out a small, almost shy laugh, her first real smile since they had met.
"Shimmer... I think I like it, too."
With her new name settled, the trio pressed on, the oppressive mist swirling around them. Even in the suffocating environment, Vastarael couldn't help but notice how Shimmer's presence, small as it was, seemed to make the darkness feel just a little lighter.
'Shimmer. It suits her.'
The trek toward the center of the island was grueling, though not in the way Vastarael expected. The oppressive spore fog, thicker and more vibrant the closer they moved toward its source, coiled around them. The air was heavy, but not with cold or moisture. The ground underfoot was no longer soft and fertile. It had become jagged and rocky, pockmarked with the scars of battles long past.
Yet, as they walked, Vastarael noticed something peculiar.
The peonies, once ravenous and relentless, no longer lunged for them. The vines seemed to withdraw. Not entirely lifeless, but subdued, almost as if they had acknowledged their defeat and allowed them passage. It was eerie and unsettling, like the calm before an execution.
"They're letting us through."
Phaenora, walking slightly ahead with Shimmer at her side, glanced over her shoulder.
"That's not comforting. It's like they're leading us to our death."
They moved in tense silence, the red fog thickening as they followed the trail of spores toward the island's heart. Shimmer stayed close, unusually quiet.
And then, the three of them reached a vast open field. The mist parted slightly, revealing what lay beyond.
Vastarael stopped dead in his tracks. His breath hitched and his heart froze in his chest.
Scattered across the rocky terrain were bodies.
No, not bodies. Corpses.
Men, women, children, even infants. Their forms stood unnaturally upright, locked in place like grotesque statues. Their faces, twisted in expressions of eternal horror, were barely visible beneath the crimson flowers blooming across their bodies. Peonies sprouted from their eyes, mouths and chests, breaking through flesh like parasitic invaders.
Hundreds of them.
The peonies swayed gently in the stale air, their unnaturally vivid red petals standing in stark contrast to the grey rock. It was as though the flowers themselves had consumed the souls of the dead and now stood in mockery of life.
Vastarael staggered back a step.
"The Raukerai..."
Phaenora's hand shot out to steady him, but even she was shaking, her skin pale.
"No..."
The Raukerai, the once-proud migrators they had lived alongside with in the past, now stood here as lifeless husks, consumed by the Crimson Curtain Peonies. Vastarael's mind reeled as memories of their strength, camaraderie and stubborn resolve flooded back to him. And now, they were nothing but flowered corpses.
Vastarael clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he tried to steady himself. But the horror wouldn't let him go. These were people he had known, people who he fought for. Families, warriors, children, all reduced to this... this abomination.
Shimmer let out a small gasp, her tiny hand gripping Vastarael's sleeve.
"Why... are they like this?" She whispered, her voice trembling.
"The spores," Vastarael said, his voice hollow. "They didn't escape in time. The tree consumed them, used them to grow stronger. The People of The Frozen Sun are no more."
Phaenora's expression hardened, her grief quickly giving way to fury.
"This tree... it's more than just a plant. It's a predator. It... it enslaves its prey, turns them into part of itself."
Vastarael stepped forward slowly, his gaze fixed on the nearest corpse. A man, tall and broad-shouldered, with peonies erupting from his chest. The face was half-obscured by the flowers, but he recognized him.
"Indulis?"
He was alive.